


Brothers: Reprise

by MusicBooksNoReality



Series: Brothers [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Damian Wayne, Damian Wayne Angst, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne Has Feelings, Damian Wayne Has Issues, Damian Wayne Has a Heart, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian Wayne-centric, Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne are Siblings, Gen, Hurt Damian Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22307260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicBooksNoReality/pseuds/MusicBooksNoReality
Summary: 'He allowed himself a moment of collapse. His knees touched the wood floor and it broke the dam. It was a quiet defeat as much as Damian wanted to scream in pain. His brother hated him.'Damian Wayne needs to let go of his past to embrace his future, but white knuckles make hard habits of keeping things close.
Relationships: Damian Wayne & Everyone, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Series: Brothers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605646
Comments: 18
Kudos: 591





	Brothers: Reprise

**Author's Note:**

> In this chapter Damian wrongfully mistakes Dick’s lying about his mental health to include Dick lying about his love. As a result, Damian begins the process of self sabotaging himself, not realizing how much he is breaking until it is too late.
> 
> The song best used for Damian in this chapter would be I’ll Be Good by Jaymes Young.
> 
> To understand more about this version of Damian (and even Tim), read Life Happens by cdelphiki on AO3.
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful batfam_or_death for beta reading and becoming a friend. Looking forward to keep working with you!

The Manor was tense. Over the past week, the air shifted. It demanded more attention then before, the eggshells Damian walked on were more fragile than usual. The creaking wood was the same, the chairs scraping across the floor, the dinner plates clanking against each other each night during dinner. But Grayson refused to speak to him. To anyone. It made everything so awkward and Damian hated it. He hated the silence, the memories, he hated feeling useless, he hated the worry that permeated his bones. He hated it, all of it. Why couldn’t Grayson just be better? Why did it happen in the first place? 

_ Stress _ . Damian wanted to scoff at the thought. Stress is no excuse for something so… so horrible. Not that Damian would ever say that he had been frightened. He might’ve been able to still feel the stiffening of his muscles, his breath breaking silence and killing the words caught in Damian’s throat, but no one else had to know that the youngest Wayne had been utterly terrified. He supposed the definition was traumatized, but Damian didn’t want to admit it, even to himself. 

It had been a week since the pseudo-seizure. The stress seizure. Damian had no idea he would ever feel the same dread in his stomach again: the first time had been when his mother killed him. It had been a long time since he had thought of the day his mother murdered him, but whenever he did, his breathing shallowed and quickened uneasily. The boy shook his head to physically clear the image from his head. He knew pseudo-seizures were real, he had seen them before in “intense interrogation” sessions with the League, but the thought of someone he loved and cared for going through the pain never crossed his mind. Grayson moved in extremely unusual ways, his gait was little like Damian had seen before, his body control exceptional due to the many years of training. It was always something Damian admired, the control, the precision. Grayson never wasted a single calorie of energy. To see Grayson lose it all, the shaking, writhing, the stillness after it was over… Damian loved Grayson, as hard as it was to express, to see him suffer like that was difficult.

The gentle tug of his gut fed him his mother’s conditioned words, that love was a chemical betrayal, it made warriors weak and Damian could  _ not _ be weak if he wanted to come to his _ rightful _ place at the side of his –

Damian shouldn’t be thinking like that. Father would be disappointed. Grayson would be disappointed. Dick, he mentally corrected. Dick. Dick was his older brother and he deserved to be called his preferred name. Damian used it rarely, as a term of affection when he just wanted to show Grayson –-  _ Dick _ how much he did care. Damian cared a lot; he cared so much it ached and hurt, he cared more than he should but he didn’t know how to show it. So he was gonna start with the one thing he knew how to do. He could call his brother by the name he preferred. 

Titus pushed his head into Damian’s hand and Damian smiled, petting the Great Dane. Sometimes it was as easy as that, he had to remind himself. Smiling was okay, it's allowed. It’s not a sign of weakness. Not something that will get him hit or beaten. The cruel memories dulled his newly colored life with a sickening gravity. He loved his life at Wayne Manor. He loved his Father, Dick,  Todd Jason, even  Dra Timothy. He loved his whole family, informal or not. He had to just keep reminding himself of it. He had to retrain. Remember. Damian Al Ghul died when his mother killed him and Damian Wayne had been born. He had to act like it. Dick had shown him that.

He sat for a few more moments, breathing, remembering Dick lying in the med bay after, asleep, small tremors destroying the stillness, bland and stale and thick, so thick, so suffocating. 

With a sigh, Damian stood from the bench in the garden, walking back into the Manor. The fall air always reminded Damian of grim death. The chill of the air like dead bodies, the crunch of leaves like necks snapping, the trees the color of Nanda Parbat, the smells of cinnamon and spices like  _ her _ . He hated being outside in the autumn. He had seen enough death, caused enough of it, blood and lives resting on his shoulders. But that was what bothered Damian the most. Why was a seizure resting so much heavier than the lives he took?

He was too young. Alfred always remarked how young he was, but Damian’s not young, not by choice. Even if he had a choice he’s too old now, too old to be so messed up and broken and

Dick was sitting at the dining room table, mulling over paperwork. It was early, a little after six in the morning. Usually everyone would still be asleep after their late nights, but only the Batman would be seen in Gotham for a while.

Everyone was grounded. Even  To Jason. Though how Father managed to get him to listen, no one knew.

Damian sat at the dining room table with Dick, not speaking, letting them stew in silence. But just like always, it began to crawl into Damian’s mouth and throat, down into his lungs and stomach, the silence eating Damian alive, bleeding into his veins. 

What did cause the seizure? Dick wouldn’t say. It was caused by stress, but what stressed his older brother? He always seemed so happy and carefree, it usually disturbed Damian, but now he wondered just how much of it was a lie. 

How much had Damian been lied to? If Dick had lied about his stress to the point of getting hurt, he had to lie about other things. That’s how it worked. But Damian was trained to spot lies. Had his training failed him? He had been taught that Dick never lied, but that was false, obviously. How much of Dick did Damian really know? Dick could have lied about anything. Everything.

Damian paled. He felt the blood rush from his face and he became chill. His stomach wanted to reject it’s meager dinner from the night before. How much of Dick’s love and affection and happiness had been a lie? Did he ever really care about Damian? Was it some sick joke? The thought made him even more nauseous. Bile rose into his mouth. It made sense.

Of course Dick had lied to Damian. He lied to everyone. And who could love someone so angry? So mean? Damian thought that Dick had been different, that Dick cared, but he hadn’t even said a word to Damian since the seizure and he _ could  _ talk, he just didn’t want to. He must hate him. It made so much sense and the betrayal twisted into him. Maybe Mother was right, affection and trust were a mistake.

Damian was the one to start the fight. The fight that had ended when Dick crashed to the floor. It was his fault. It was his fault Grayson had the seizure. It was all his fault and Grayson knew it, that’s why Grayson hated Damian.

Damian slammed the chair away from him as he stood, eyes filled with tears. Grayson’s head shot up while Damian turned away from him and stomped in raging fury to his room.

Footsteps followed the boy as he raced through the house, up the stairs, the air turning hostile in easy seconds. 

“Damian?” Grayson called out behind him. Anger bowled him over but didn’t stop Damian’s cowardly escape. Figures now Grayson would talk, after Damian had figured him out. He ran into his room, slamming the door behind him, preventing Grayson from entering. He locked it to ensure privacy. He turned his back to the door and leaned against it. He tried to steady his breathing, shaking and scared.

A knock. “Damian? What was that? Do you want to talk?” A pause. Damian didn’t answer. A sigh followed and Damian finally let the tears fall at the last straw. Grayson sounded so annoyed, how dare he! Damian was the one trying to leave, trying to get away from him! Grayson didn’t have to follow!

In an impulsive fit, Damian snatched the door open, about to scream through his shakey sobs, but Grayson was already there, kneeling and reaching a hand out to wipe some tears. “Bud, what’s wrong?” It was disgusting.

The boy scowled and smacked the hand away. “Faking worry for me? When will your games stop Grayson?” The name was hissed with such animosity and rage. Damian just wanted to be left alone but if Grayson wanted to see Damian, then Grayson would see all of him, the Damian Grayson had created and now destroyed.

“Faking? Damian what are you talking about? Of course I worry about you. I love you, you’re my little brother.” Eyes so blue, full of worry and lies. Damian’s throat threatened to close.

“All lies too! This is the first time you’ve spoken to me since it happened! If you’re just mad at me then tell me! Tell me you hate me!”

Dick shook his head in pure confusion, infuriating Damian even more. How long would he keep his lies? How long could he keep up the charade? “Damian I’m not mad at you and I definitely do not hate you. Where did you even get that idea from? Did Tim tell you I was? He’s not supposed to start fights and spread lies.” So Drake knew? Drake was in on this!? How long had they been plotting and laughing behind Damian’s back? It was sickening.

“So you  _ are _ lying to me! Drake didn’t have to tell me anything, I figured it out on my own!”

“Damian, I genuinely don’t understand, what are you talking about?”

Damian sniffled and just put his head down, eyes closed. “Just leave.”

“Damian —“

The door shut in his face, Damian switching the lock. He heard Grayson leave after several minutes, a defeated sigh the only thing left of him.

He allowed himself a moment of collapse. His knees touched the wood floor and it broke the dam. It was a quiet defeat as much as Damian wanted to scream in pain. His brother hated him. The one person he had trusted had betrayed him and played him for a fool. Damian was a simple idiot, and no doubt Grayson and Drake -- and Todd too, had laughed at him for it. Father might even be in on the cause. Possibly Pennyworth. Everyone. 

When the searing pain had passed, turning into a less demanding wound, Damian took the time to stand, collected himself and then opened his closet, taking out his easel and his latest project.

The painting was special. It had taken him ages to color match the paints, he had needed a lot of base colors to blend and turn into shadows and highlights. They were kept in special jars, made for long term paint projects. The cool container was chilling Damian’s angry heat. It focused his attention away from his breaking heart. The autopilot of the process had Damian open the paints and grab his brushes, setting the painting on the easel. He surveyed it, trying to not feel even more betrayed and hurt the more he stared at it.

It was a family portrait. He had been spending months on it, verging into the year mark, trying to get it just right, colors blending, outfits redone, little details studied. Every person had weeks focused on them, dedicated to them. Damian would be ashamed to say he had every face and curve and freckle memorized of his father, Pennyworth, Grayson, Todd, Drake, Cain, even Gordon and Brown and himself were to be included. So much time and effort… for a family that hated him. He growled, sobs catching in his throat. He gripped the paintbrush in his fist. 

If Grayson hated him then so did everyone else. Damian studied his father, eyes a storm of battling grey and blue, wrinkles and scars littering his features, his cheekbone feeding into his jawline, a nose broken more times than even Damian could count. The man who had disappeared as soon as Damian arrived, who never trusted him to make the right choices, who never let Damian alone with other people, who had to make him swear to attend a school far below Damian’s level. 

His eyes changed to a smiling Pennyworth. White hair and balding, Damian never realized how old the man was before, so spry and alive when in front of him, but a picture told a thousand words and while Damian didn’t mean to, Pennyworth looked so tired in the painting. He looked sad and tired despite his smile and hand on Father’s shoulder, so loving. Pennyworth was getting on in his years and he was ever so vigilant, but how long would that last? Damian certainly didn’t help. But he never let Damian do  _ anything _ , like keep things that meant something special to him. He was overprotective, manipulative, controlling. He stole the knives and swords Damian had collected, things he was gifted, his collection disappearing with every passing day. He knew it was Pennyworth, no one else would have been able to find the gifts from his Mother and Grandfather. He had no right to take them. And the old man was always denying his requests to drive, to go out by himself, to do anything that proved himself a worthy adult. 

And Todd, who stood next to Pennyworth, his hair so finely crafted, his eyes reminiscent of a tidepool, alive and shallow with amusement to hide his deeper pain. Todd hated Damian on instinct, Todd hated the League, hated his mother, hated everything about Damian, and while the younger wanted to believe there was no love lost, Damian knew that Todd was the only one who understood. Being murdered, being subjected to the hell of Nanda Parbat, his Grandfather’s increasing insanity… only Todd would ever understand. Damian had wanted to connect to the older brother, he wanted to show that he knew what Todd went through, but it was never to be. The fighting, the pain, the distrust. The painting was supposed to be an attempt on Damian’s end to reconcile that, to heal, with all of them, but what was the point if Damian would always be hated? 

And Drake. Damian felt the wooden brush crack in his hands. Drake, smiling and kind, smart and calculating. Damian was only able to create the softness in his looks from pictures and studying Drake when the CEO had no idea. He hated Damian even more than Todd. Drake had every right, even Damian couldn’t deny that. Kindness was met with hatred, violence, plotting. He knew he was no match for the detective, even his own Grandfather had said so. Damian’s heart collapsed on itself. He would never be as perfect as Drake. Never. When Grandfather abandoned Damian for Drake, it had hurt horribly and he wanted to torture his older brother just as Drake had tortured him. However Damian’s attempts to apologize, to right wrongs, went under scornful attack from his older brother. It was humiliating.

Grayson… Damian couldn’t even see the painting he was crying so hard. Grayson was the worst, with his sun shattering smile, his openness. Gaining Damian’s trust, his love, and praising him in all of Damian’s attempts to gain approval from _ his _ Batman. Grayson was his older brother and Bruce was his father but sometimes… sometimes Damian had wished Grayson was his blood. And then Damian had been betrayed. 

His anger overtook him. He threw the brush aside and picked up the painting knife, stabbing the gift, the hard work, the hope of starting over, the speech he had started writing teasing his memory as he stabbed it.

_ ‘I’m sorry, _ ’ it would have started. ‘ _ I’m sorry for my actions, for the rough beginnings, but I’m willing to work on it. I want to be your son, your brother, not your enemy, I want to be a part of this family, all of it. I will smile more _ ,’ stab, ‘ _ I will not start fights _ ,’ stab, ‘ _ I will not be needlessly cruel _ ,’ stab, ‘ _ I will start over, as a new Damian Wayne, no hint of Al-Ghul. _ ’ Stab, rip rip rip scheeeeeet, giant tear down the middle as he collapsed on the ground, crying.

He had just wanted to start over. He wanted to feel like a member of the family, not like an angry outsider. He wanted Grayson to not be a liar, he wanted to be loved with reckless abandon, as reckless abandon is all he knew. He wanted this for years now, and now he knew it was never going to happen.

Grayson hated him. Father hated him. His mother, grandfather, everyone hated him.

Why did everyone hate him?

That night’s dinner was tense. Pennyworth said attendance was mandatory (which meant everyone was there, except Cain who was in Hong Kong), and while he didn’t want to show, Damian had appeared anyway. He didn't touch his food, his eyes red and puffy, no one willing to ask _ ‘ _ what happened’ and Damian knew it was because they all despised him. They all thought he would snap at them, his anger a beast that they didn’t want to provoke. If only they knew how much he wanted them to ask, to worry, to show they cared. But Damian knew they wouldn’t.

Grayson said nothing. Drake said nothing. Pennyworth said little, and only to Father. 

Damian couldn’t let it infest his insides any longer. He stood up and left. He didn’t hear anyone call after him.

Tears broke surface again. Is this what abandonment felt like?

He didn’t want to admit it, but that night instead of sleeping, Damian ended up skulking around the Manor thinking about how much he wanted to climb atop a tall mountain and forget his troubles. He wanted nothing more than cold air to grip his lungs and not let go, he wanted his vision to go blurry from strong winds, his mind empty as he viewed life from a peak. But that wasn’t an option. He knew if he tried to run away he would be found and brought home. Home. What a despicable word. Damian wiped a stray tear. He had no home anymore. Home didn’t hate you.

Creeping through the East Wing, his thoughts on winter chill and the hope it snowed soon, he caught a few words from the sitting salon, a room made more for comfort than entertaining guests. He stopped and listened, not caring if he was caught.

It was Pennyworth. “How are you doing Master Richard?” It seemed to be some sort of makeshift therapy session. 

“Good.” It was a horribly disguised lie. A deaf person would be able to hear the falsity. Grayson’s fake cheer was alarming more than usual because of it. He was struggling.

And of course, Pennyworth had to mention it. “Good is not an answer in regards to your mental health, Master Richard. Especially when it’s a lie.”

Grayson chuckled behind the thick doors, playing it off. “Alfred, I swear I’m fine. We’ve been at this for a week now and I keep telling you, it just happened all at once, it all crashed down.”

“And even now you manage to avoid talking about exactly what ‘it’ is, Master Grayson.” The impatience was palpable and Damian could feel Grayson flinch. Pennyworth only used last names when he was angry. 

The fake cheer turned somber. “Alfred, I really don’t want to drag anyone down with my issues, including you. Why don’t you go check on our Boy Wonder? He’s not been the same since it happened either. None of them have.”

“As much as I care for the other young masters, Master Grayson, I am here for your health right now. Including your ever elusive mental health.”

“Alfred please…” Damian sucked in a breath. Grayson had never sounded so tired before. It was leaking from his pores and Damian felt like he had just invaded something far more personal and intimate than a failing therapy session. “Please, just not right now.” The exhaustion, the pain, the fear, the worry, the stress, the age, the mental toll rolled off of Grayson’s tongue. His fake cheer, while convincing, was hiding back pure burn out. Damian bit his tongue. Grayson was an expert at hiding his true feelings and Damian wanted to apologize. It was no doubt Damian had caused some of it.

Instead he walked away from the study, wondering how he was going to get the hell out of this house. It was suffocating him. The need for approval, the craving for affection, the loss of contact, love, from the one person in the world who would give it to him unconditionally. Damian couldn’t breathe.

He paused on the stairs, gripping the railing, his heart aching, it had been punched, it was in so much pain, is this what a heart attack felt like? Damian fell, his vision swimming, the tiles of reality breaking and twisting. He couldn’t breathe, Allah, why couldn’t he breathe? 

Hands came for him, distant sounds of yelling, Damian’s instincts came and he tried to fight off the attacker (how did he get here? where was he? why was he being attacked?) but it was a fruitless attempt, his strength was gone, his vision still swimming, his heart aching.

A voice pierced the fog, a soft light to follow. It was Grayson.

“Damian,” he was so soft, “Damian calm down. Listen to me, you’re having a panic attack. Calm down, it's okay, I’m right here. I won’t hurt you.” He still struggled. He didn’t trust Grayson’s lies, his façade, but Grayson continued. “ _ Please _ .” This made him pause. The single word was full of suffering, of self hate, desperation. “Please, just let me help you. It’s what I do, I help people.” 

Stilling, the boy felt Grayson let go of a breath, but still Damian couldn’t breath, his body going numb.

“You’re hyperventilating. I’m gonna count, but you have to try and follow along okay? We can’t have you passing out now, can we?”

Damian shook his head as best he could.

“Okay, ready? One robin, two robins, three robins, four. Batman knocked on a villain’s door.” The child’s rhyme was a popular playground song for jump rope. It had always confused Damian but now it sounded so peaceful. “Five robins, six robins, seven robins, eight. Batman was almost late for his date. Nine robins, ten robins, eleven robins, twelve. Batman gave the bad guys hell. Good job Dami. Breathe in and out. You can do this.”

He felt like such a child, cradled in his brother’s arms. He just wanted to scream that he wasn’t a baby, he didn’t need to be coddled. In his blindness and exhaustion, Damian let out a few whispers of words.

“You’re not a child Dami. I know you’re not. You’re a strong young man with a world of opportunity ahead of you.”

What would Grayson care? If he lied about his happiness and easy-go way of life, he’s lying about this too. About caring for Damian. About loving him.

“Oh Dami… I never meant for you to feel like that. You mean everything to me Little D. I’ve never lied about loving you, I’ve never lied about anything with you. I keep my stress to myself because it’s my job to make others happy. To make you happy.”

What about Grayson’s happiness? Damian couldn’t give a shit about himself, everyone hated him. Everyone loved Grayson and they wanted him to be real happy, not fake happy. Damian didn’t _ matter _ .

“Damian don’t you ever say that again. I care about you and love you so much, just like everyone else does. No one hates you.”

“Drake does. Todd too.” Damian sniffled into Dick’s chest.

His older brother wrapped his arms around Damian a little tighter and pulled him closer. They were sitting on the stairs, alone in a seemingly empty house. 

“They don’t hate you. Brothers are supposed to fight Damian, it’s part of being a family.” The ruined painting flashed through Damian’s mind and suddenly he hated himself with such a strong passion. He had ruined his one chance.

“Dick?” The hug got a little tighter.

“Yes Dami?”

“I messed up.” So much.

“We can talk about it later. Let’s calm you down first okay? Panic attacks are no joke and you need to be taken care of after something like that.”

Damian nodded. He was warm. He felt cared for. He felt loved. For now, that was “Okay.”

He felt like a brother.

Damian didn’t question when Father joined the pair to tell them to follow. Dick wasn’t the only one who heard Damian collapse on the stairs after all. Damian stayed in Dick’s arms as the older brother stood and crossed the Manor to the theater room. A movie was set up and it was nice to enjoy it in silence with everyone, but Damian didn’t last long. He was tired and it was nice to fall asleep in Dick’s arms. He dreamt of a meadow that night, warm and sunny. He played with Titus and it was good.

The next morning, Damian found himself in his room. It was late morning, based on the sun, and Damian felt surprisingly rested. He scanned his room and — his painting. It was gone. The shambled mess of a canvas, it had disappeared.

In a devastating panic Damian shot up from his bed, landing on Titus underfoot, running out of his room with a quick apology to the big dog. He hoped no one threw it out, he’d have to search the garbage for it, he needed the original to redo it, he had to remake it. 

The quickest way, Damian decided, was through the kitchen. He ran down the stairs and opened the kitchen door and —

“Hello Master Damian. Care to join us for breakfast?”

Damian stared. The whole family, minus Todd and Cain, were sitting in the kitchen laughing and talking. The awkwardness was gone. How? Why would everyone suddenly act like — oh no. The whole family knew. Damian’s face reddened, with anger or embarrassment or both, he didn’t know.

Damian shook his head at Pennyworth and began to head for the back door to the bins. Suddenly his mission for his destroyed work of art was turned into an excuse to escape the reminder of last night. 

“Come on Little D, we made your favorite.” Dick appeared at Damian’s shoulder, his hand on the younger’s head. Damian tried to avoid looking at the food (Shakshuka, it really was his favorite) and his brother, not speaking a word. He knew he looked suspicious but nothing was more embarrassing than last night. 

“Master Damian, I suggest you sit down and eat before your food gets cold. It isn’t often Master Richard doesn’t burn the food he makes.” 

Dick snickered, “Alfred you give me too much credit.”

“I do indeed.”

Damian hid his smile behind his embarrassment and sat at the counter, smelling the eggs and salivating. He grabbed a fork and some toasted pita. He filled the bread and began to eat. It was hot and gooey and just how he liked it, onions and bell peppers cooked finely. It was going well before he realized how quiet it was. He looked up and saw everyone staring at him. 

“What?” He snapped before wincing. He didn’t mean to snap.

Dick gave a gentle smile. “Damian, you’re crying.”

Instantly Damian reached a hand to his face and yes, there it was, tears. Allah, could things get any worse? He wiped them away and cowered into himself, but the action broke something. He began to sob. Drake exited the kitchen immediately with Brown and Gordon following. Father stood and walked towards Damian, but Dick was there, hugging him, whispering into his ear.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of Damian, it’s okay. You had a rough night. It’s okay. Is this about your picture?” 

Damian’s head shot up so quickly he accidentally headbutted his brother (though both of them were fine, the pain passing in moments). “How do you know about it!?”

Dick looked at Father and nodded, Father exiting the room. “Last night, when I put you to bed after the movie.” The thought didn’t even cross Damian. He really was slowing down. “Damian… is that what you meant when you had messed up?” The boy nodded, ashamed. But to his surprise, Dick smiled. “Dami, it was gorgeous. I’m so sorry I had hurt you enough for you to damage something so priceless. I never intended to hurt you like that.”

Bruce returned with a large canvas. It was the painting! But it looked… fixed. How? Damian must have let the shock and confusion onto his face, because Father, Dick, and Pennyworth all smiled. “Here son.” The painting was handed off. He could see the stitches now, small and clear. It was delicately placed, so much care and effort…

He gently touched it. “Who?”

Dick wrapped an arm around Damian’s shoulder. “Stayed up all night for it.”

“Though it was against everyone’s wishes.” Pennyworth side-eyed his eldest grandson. 

Dick shrugged. “It was worth it.”

But Damian was staring. It looked… it looked perfect. It was repaired and Damian could see where Dick had tried to repair the paint on the rips. But even though Damian had thought it unfinished just a week ago, it seemed so right. 

“Damian…” he looked up. “I just want to say that I am sorry. I never realized before how much my suffering is my family’s suffering. I hurt you by not being honest and by not getting the help I need and deserve. I feel truly awful for doing this to you and I’m gonna be working on it okay?” Damian nodded mutely, his lips thin.

“But you don’t feel bad for doing it to yourself, do you?” 

Dick nodded. “And that’s what I’m going to be working on. I hurt not just you, but I hurt Bruce, I hurt Alfred, I hurt everyone for not trusting you all to hold my weight with me. I broke something I should have built up instead.”

Damian touched the stitches. “Has everyone seen it yet?”

Father was the one that answered, a shake of the head.

“I’m ready to show it now. I suppose some of the surprise is ruined but… that’s okay. Father, when I give you a date, would you be willing to arrange everyone to come to the Manor? I want to say something when I show it to everyone.” 

Father smiled, his lips in a soft upturn. “Of course Damian. And it really is beautiful. I’m proud of you.”

The words settled into Damian’s memory. He wanted to remember this moment with everything he had, with clarity like no other. He wanted to remember the day Damian Wayne was reborn.

**Author's Note:**

> Damian Wayne was an abused child. He was sculpted and crafted with entitled promises and forced to learn the power of taking another's life. He should be unrecoverable in all honesty. He should be a true sociopath with no empathy. But instead he is just like his father and is fueled with emotions. And he has the opportunity to heal. With love and trust and guidance, he is now discovering who he is as a person. He needs to be the one to decide who he is. Not Talia, not Ra's, not Bruce, not Dick, him. This means Damian needs to have moments of complete vulnerability and healing with others and himself.


End file.
